


The Real Deal

by Anweyr



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5 Times, Character Study, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9240968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anweyr/pseuds/Anweyr
Summary: Yuuri's fantasies of Victor Nikiforov have evolved over the years.Or: Five times Yuuri got off while fantasizing about Victor.





	

**Fifteen.**

Yuuri is fifteen when he first thinks of Victor Nikiforov while touching himself.

 He’s been masturbating for a while -- he’s a teenage boy, after all -- but he’s tried to steer his thoughts carefully away from anyone real while he does it.  Sometimes just focusing on how everything feels is enough. When it’s not, comic-book characters are safe.  Or just vague fantasies of naked bodies, made out of bits and pieces of those he’s seen in the locker room and the baths, with a hefty dose of imagination. They’re not real, so there’s no one to find out about it, who could be upset about it.

His thoughts had wandered once --  _ once --  _ to Takeshi, and although he’d stopped right away, he’d spent the next week hardly able to speak to his friend, terrified that somehow it showed on his face. Takeshi decided Yuuri was mad at him, rather than terrified, and only Yuuko’s intervention had saved their friendship.

He’s lying in bed, feeling tired but vaguely frustrated, not ready to sleep just yet. His tossing and turning has already driven Vicchan from the foot of the bed, whuffling indignantly, so it doesn’t take much to persuade the dog to leave the room. Yuuri will let him back in later, and tries not to feel too guilty as he settles back into bed.

There’s not enough light to see anything beyond vague blocks of grey and black on his newest poster, but Yuuri doesn’t need to see them to know what he’s looking at. Long silver hair, flashing smile, free leg extended and arms and back arced with impossible grace.

 Yuuri’s hand slips down his pants, and he’s stroking himself before he even quite registers that he’s hard. And though there’s the little spark of guilt, he pushes on, his mind full of flashing blue eyes and that perfect arabesque and the free feeling of flying across the ice.  Of the muscles that must lie beneath the skin-tight fabric, and how they’d look moving, warm and alive.

The euphoria builds, tightening like pulling into a sit spin, and moments later he spills out over his hand. He’s panting. It was fast, but good, and he lays there a long time as the glow fades.

The worry doesn’t start twisting in his gut until he reaches for tissues to clean up. He shoves it down, firmly, talking to himself in his head. Victor Nikiforov will never find out. Yuuri’s miles beneath his notice in Juniors, mostly taking bronze if he even makes the podium at all. They’ll never meet.

Besides, Victor’s famous, with many fans. Yuuri’s hardly the first, and won’t be the last. 

He still feels a jolt of panic later that week, when Yuuko mentions the famous Russian skater at practice, but he shoves it down, and eventually forgets he was ever worried.   
  


 

**Eighteen.**

 By the time he’s eighteen, celebrities are regulars in Yuuri’s fantasies, actors and athletes and models from magazines, all male. He’s far too embarrassed to buy the magazines that he’d need to show ID for, but the sports magazines have photos of swimmers. And once he gets a computer for university school, there’s the internet. He doesn’t  -- can’t -- imagine himself having sex with any of them; it’s too presumptuous on one hand, and too intimate on the other. But thoughts of sex at one remove is fine, more than fine. 

With his first competition of the season coming up, his mind often runs in circles at night -- sometimes for hours -- before he can sleep. It’s his first season away from Hasetsu and his family and the inn, his first season without sharing warm-ups with Yuuko, his first summer without Vicchan snoring at the foot of his bed. Everything’s changed, except for the fit of his skates and the triumphant jolt of a clean landing. Everything will keep changing, too, and so much hinges on how he does this year, in the rink and whether he can keep up with university classwork and skating at the same time.  It’s suffocating, and sometimes it feels like the only time he can breathe is when he’s on the ice.

The night before the competition, he returns to the familiar comfort of his fantasies of Victor Nikiforov. Those pink lips, which are parted slightly in a killer smile on the posters, in his mind open wider, fastening around a cock. Those hands, elegant but strong, pressing down on muscular shoulders; lithe, muscular torso hovering above a sculpted back and taut ass.  Yuuri turns his face against his pillow, eyes screwed shut, his palm moving against the slick head of his dick, his fingers pulling along its length. 

In his fantasy, Victor has flawless skin all over, unmarred by the purple and yellow of bruises, hands smooth because it’s impossible to imagine  _ Victor Nikiforov  _ falling like a mere mortal skater, or suffering chapped hands and lips. Yuuri knows westerners are supposed to be hairy, but the swimmers aren’t, and so Victor isn’t either.

Yuuri imagines, for a moment, the warmth of that skin, smooth beneath his own hands, and comes in a dizzying rush that leaves him panting for a long while after.

There’s no guilt, even once his breathing slows. Even though he dreamed -- for a moment -- that he could touch Victor Nikiforov, could reach the top of the lofty pillar where the god of skating resided. It’s a little bit like tasting victory. Sure, he’s daydreamed about having the Russian skater as his teacher, his coach, but this is different, more arrogant, like he  _ deserves _ .

At the competition, he spends most of the afternoon so close to silver he can taste it, losing out only at the last moment, by less than a point. So he takes bronze yet again -- but it’s a proper bronze, this time, not just a junior medal. Stepping up to the lowest tier feels like the next step up a long flight that leads to the top.

 

  
**Twenty-Two.**

Yuuri loses his virginity in America at age twenty-two, one month after arriving in Detroit.  Brian Grant is so stereotypically American that it’s hard to believe he’s real -- he’s tall, plays basketball, blond and blue-eyed, and (Yuuri learns later) has divorced parents. He doesn’t have a gun, thank goodness -- Phichit had asked, when setting up the blind date. Yuuri never would have dared.

It’s easier than he had thought it would be. Everyone knows Americans move fast, expect sex on the first date. It doesn’t mean anything to them. So Yuuri can just follow along with what’s expected. 

They meet at a bar, have dinner and drinks (Yuuri will have to make up for the second beer later on, it’s more calories than he should have on top of the hamburger and fries, but he’s still too anxious after just one). Brian leads the conversation, and they talk mostly about training -- basketball and skating are very different, but some things are constant. 

Yuuri doesn’t have to ask anything, or make decisions, because the script is already written. So it’s easy to say yes when he’s invited back to Brian’s apartment afterwards. He doesn’t even have to bring up showering first, even though he’s heard Americans don’t. He doesn’t know if Brian is doing that for his sake, or is just cleaner than most Americans.

He doesn’t feel as vulnerable as he’d thought he would, although maybe that’s the beer, keeping Brian at a safe distance emotionally even as his mouth and hands work over Yuuri’s most intimate physical parts. The sensations are subdued and overwhelming all at once, and his release comes embarrassingly soon.

Then it’s Yuuri’s turn. A moment of panic, because he knows what he needs to do, but doesn’t know  _ how _ . But Brian’s patient, coaxing him,  _ coaching _ him, and it’s easier when there’s instructions to follow. The other athlete murmurs little praises as Yuuri struggles with the feeling that his mouth suddenly has too many teeth and the rubbery taste of the condom. It’s different from how he imagined, but even though his jaw soon starts to ache from being so wide open, it’s exciting to actually have a dick in his mouth. And he’s a little pleased and definitely hard again when Brian finally comes with a loud cry and a sudden thrust that makes Yuuri gag.

Yuuri doesn’t think about Victor Nikiforov all week, not even when he’s in the rink. 

There are a few more dates -- more sex --  but it’s not long before Brian suggests they end things. They’re both so busy with practice, their seasons are starting soon, Yuuri already seems to be gearing up for his...

It’s disappointing, but it doesn’t hurt very much, and he worries a little that it doesn’t. But he never let Brian get that close to start with. 

It doesn’t seem polite to fantasize about your ex -- Yuuri certainly hopes Brian isn’t thinking about him anymore --  so the swimmers and models and Victor Nikiforov come back into his fantasies, comforting and familiar. Although the Victor of his dreams is older now, hairier and a little more real, with a faint trail of hair from his navel to crotch like Brian had, and there’s the memory of latex in Yuuri’s mouth. 

 

**Twenty-Three.**

After his disaster in Sochi, Yuuri’s fantasies stay far away from Victor Nikiforov. His gut knots whenever he thinks of his idol, or of his own terrible performance. The shame is more painful than the bruising all along his legs and hips from his falls. Time helps, and distance, but even after he starts practicing Victor’s free skate program there’s still the internal flinch. 

Then the real Victor Nikiforov turns Yuuri’s life upside-down that April. At first, between the intensive exercise program and the gymnastics his emotions have been performing, Yuuri’s too exhausted to jerk off at night. 

It takes a week for things to settle -- the external routine, internal feelings. Maybe it’s time, or maybe it’s seeing Victor play ridiculous foreign tourist at the false ninja castle that does it. Whatever it is, Yuuri’s glad, so very glad, to have found this new normal. 

He’s sleepy, pillow still cool against his face, when he reaches down to grasp himself. Slowly, his hand curling around his stiffening shaft, he turns his thoughts to sex. Strong bodies, warm mouths, tightness around his cock. A body beneath his, torso arching up and sweat-slick against his own.  It’s good, but still too vague, so Yuuri lets his mind paint details of his imaginary partner. 

Relaxed, in familiar surroundings, his mind summons a familiar fantasy: muscular legs, flawless skin, pale tufts of hair, washboard abs, well-muscled shoulders. Blue eyes, bright and piercing.

Yuuri stops breathing. 

_ Shit _ , he thinks, and his heart’s racing now a very different reason. Victor isn’t miles away, not anymore, and the onsen and Victor’s flamboyant nature have left little to the imagination.  It’s one thing to fantasize about the safely distant, larger-than-life skating god, quite another to beat off to the man who calls you piggy and coos over his dog in Russian and takes goofy tourist selfies. Who is sleeping down the hall in the extra banquet room. And who has somehow become impossibly, terrifyingly, obtainable.

He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that his fantasy was still so utterly wrong -- missing the chapped knuckles, the scar just below the knee, the way he could smile cheerfully at you while being appallingly rude. 

Either way, it’s definitely worse that now that he’s thinking about the real Victor, the grace and the scars, Yuuri’s still hard, and he really,  _ really _ should stop.  But now he’s remembering the warmth of Victor’s hand on his chin. The way Victor’s voice sometimes goes low and full of promise (Yuuri’s head knows it’s all a joke, but his dick has other ideas). And the pale nape of Victor’s neck as he glances backwards, yukata sliding down his shoulder like in a steamy movie scene. 

Yuuri decides he’ll worry about hating himself for it later, and doesn’t stop.

He sleeps badly and rises early the next morning, leaving the house for his daily run before Victor’s even out of bed. He knows by now that no one can see into his head and  _ know _ , but he’s not ready yet to face the collision of fantasy and reality.

 

**Twenty-Four.**

He’s alone in his hotel room in Moscow, staring up at the ceiling and trying to ignore the accusing yellow-green numerals of the bedside alarm clock. His flight is early tomorrow, his body is still sore, and he should get whatever sleep he can.  He should just turn the clock to face the wall. And move his phone across the room, so he’s not tempted to look at it, although then he has to worry about sleeping through his alarm. Or any texts.

_ Victor’s asleep _ , he reminds himself.  _ With Maccachin _ .  _ No one’s going to be sending you any more texts tonight. _ He pictures them both in their room in Hasetsu, Victor stretched out on his back, face serene in sleep, the poodle flopped alongside him. They’d both been through a rough couple of days, and deserved their rest.

A wave of longing washes over him, and settles in his chest like an ache.  _ Victor.  _ He wants Victor, wants to be reminded through warm, silent presence that here is someone who knows him, knows his mental weakness and the quads he still can’t land cleanly and his fears about letting people close, and still believes in him.

Yuuri tries to picture himself, sharing the bed with them both, sleeping. But he’s never actually been in Victor’s bed in Hasetsu, so he scoots over and thinks back to sharing the hotel bed with Victor, their first two nights in Moscow. 

He can’t help the smile that creeps across his face; they definitely did more than just sleep together in this bed. Another kind of longing stirs, and his first thought is no, no, surely he’s too tired to be turned on, this is not going to help his insomnia. But it’s not like there’s much else for him to do right now….

Yuuri sighs, switches on the light, and pads to the bathroom for a few tissues, to have ready at the bedside table. He feels a little silly about it, but it’s better than walking, cold and sticky, to the bathroom after. 

The bed is still warm when he returns, and in the dark he settles in, fixing his mind on Victor. Victor’s hands on his shaft, stroking him firmly, twisting slightly, the way Yuuri’s hand is moving now. The press of Victor’s chest underneath his, warm and close and solid. The sweet softness of Victor’s mouth on his, and Victor’s fingers laced with his. Those same fingers, stretching him, pressing against the spot that makes sparks go off behind Yuuri’s eyes. Victor’s laugh when Yuuri scoots down to return the favor and winds up tangled in the covers (although this is fantasy, so Yuuri skips the half-minute of struggle that it took to sort everything out while Victor made jokes about blanket monsters). And Victor’s blue eyes, going wide and then screwing shut, that near-agony expression of ecstasy as he shudders and finishes.

Yuuri has to bite back a cry as the memory of Victor’s climax triggers his own.  

_ Victor. Victor. Victor. _ He whispers it aloud, half-plaint and half-sigh. He feels looser, now, the longing still there but softened. He still wants Victor, to hold him and be held, but it’s easier to believe in the memory of home now.

This time, when he imagines laying alongside Victor and Maccachin, his limbs grow heavy and still, and soon the rising tide of sleep creeps gently over him.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to reconditarmonia, for fantastic beta work and sharp eye for weak moments in a scene! Thanks also to surskitty, for moral support/asskicking and telling me to write the final scene. 
> 
> Hat tip to assorted nonnies on FFA, for the title suggestion, and for convincing me that Victor absolutely practiced that yukata-off-the-shoulder slide in episode 1.
> 
> The character of Brian Grant is lifted almost completely from the 90's anime series Marmalade Boy. That he shares a name with a retired basketball player is a complete coincidence, at least on my end.


End file.
